


Caveman Scott, pretty Spark Stiles and the miracle of conception

by Closetfic_er



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Creeper Ethan, Creeper Peter Hale, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Morning After, Mpreg, Past Allison Argent/Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Possessive Behavior, Scent Marking, Spark Stiles, Top Scott McCall, True Alpha Scott, Unwanted Sexual Advances, Virgin Stiles, danny is awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:27:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Closetfic_er/pseuds/Closetfic_er
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott's got every right to be nervous. This is a major step in his relationship with Stiles, best friends to lovers to accidental co-parents to mates to hopefully-husbands. </p>
<p>“I mean, he agreed to be your mate after you knocked him up. That's pretty much marriage itself. Don't see why you think he'd say no to marrying you when he's already got the start of the McCall-Stilinksi soccer team currently kicking his spleen.”</p>
<p>So yeah. That's a thing that happened. Maybe Scott should start at the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Well that's embarassing

**Author's Note:**

> So. Some things you should all know: 
> 
> \- This fic is set at the end of season 2, with the only major difference being Scott NOT having the "I'll wait for you" convo with Alison. I haven't seen any of season 3, but have taken bits and pieces from it that I heard about and felt like incorporating into this story. There may be more season 3 stuff that I incorporate along the way...we'll see I guess.
> 
> \- I may get some bashing from those who like Allison as a character because of this fic, to which I say "to each their own". I will say (hopefully without starting some kind of war) that I think that the way I've written Scott's reaction to Allison's actions in season 2 (and realistically in season 1 too, cos she was there when Kate was torturing Derek and was prepared to help her aunt capture werewolves who she had no idea if they were all bad or not *endrant*) is pretty damn fair. Again, everyone reacts to things differently, but pretty sure this would have been my take on the whole sitch if I'd been in his (admittedly fictional) place.
> 
> \- I have a general idea of where this fic is going, and will try to update when I can, but not having written chaptered fic before I've no idea how I'll go on actually writing in a consistent-ish fashion. 
> 
> \- This is only the second fic I've ever written, and the first in this verse. It's also the first time I've ever attempted anything even close to sex scenes. Also, this hasn't been beta'ed. It's been somewhat self-edited, but sometimes I'm just too excited to edit properly. Ergo, please don't expect literary gold :) Comments and constructive feedback is welcomed and appreciated.
> 
> \- Finally, I tried to tag as much as I could think of, but if you feel like I should definitely have something else in there please let me know.
> 
> Enjoy?

Scott looks down at the box in his hand, heart thump-a-thumping harder in his ears than it probably needs to to circulate the blood through his body. _Damn traitor-heart_ , he thinks as Isaac looks over from his seat at Scott's desk with a quirk to his brow.

“Dude. What's with the nerves? You know he'll say yes.” The curly-haired beanpole says, exasperated. 

Which. Unfair. 

Scott's got every right to be nervous. This is a major step in his relationship with Stiles, best friends to lovers to accidental co-parents to mates to hopefully-husbands. 

“I mean, he agreed to be your mate after you knocked him up. That's pretty much marriage itself. Don't see why you think he'd say no to marrying you when he's already got the start of the McCall-Stilinksi soccer team currently kicking his spleen.”

So yeah. That's a thing that happened. Maybe Scott should start at the beginning. 

 

*****

 

See, right after the situation with crazy-ol' Gerard and his equally psychotic granddaughter (yes, Scott can admit that now, has been able to ever since he got the _full_ story from Stiles, Erica and Boyd of how she captured and helped to torture three of his friends- including his mate, which makes him see red to this very day- in the family basement) was sorted out (death for one, dishonour and banishment for the other and damn if she's lucky that's all she got), Scott'd been kind of lost. He'd put so much emphasis on his relationship with Allison, so much effort into making it a thing that worked despite the obvious challenges of their hunter/huntee statuses, that the loss of her had really thrown him. 

And it's not that he'd wanted her back (because there's just some things that you can't overlook, and a history of wilful violence and torture against innocents is one of those things), it's just that he was kind of left with this gaping hole where she used to fit. Hours of time that he used to spend _with_ her, _texting_ her, _thinking_ about her, that were suddenly empty. 

And Stiles. Dependable, fantastic, heart-the-size-of-a-house Stiles had been there to pick him up. Had filled the void with sleep-overs and gaming marathons and unhealthy food and not one iota of judgement or recrimination or blame for the fact that his bruises and cuts took weeks to fade, even though Scott was pretty sure that he didn't deserve that level of BFF after the whole fiasco. Stiles had helped put him back together, had kept him from going insane, had just been STILES.

Scott remembers vividly the day, months later, when it all changed, when the Darach aka Jennifer had been going around on her killing spree and the pieces had clicked together and they'd known she was targeting virgins. And Stiles was a virgin. The fear that'd pierced Scott's heart at that realisation, the knowledge that Stiles could be _taken_ from him, had infuriated his wolf. 

 

*****

 

“Scotty? Scott, what's wrong? Woah dude, put the claws away! Human skin here, fragile!” Stiles yelped as Scott grabbed his wrist. Derek merely raised an eyebrow, considering the two over the table like they were an interesting specimen of ant completely below his level of acknowledgement.

“Virgins, Stiles, virgins!” Scott crunched out through a mouthful of teeth.

“Uh, yeah, I know. That's what I just said.” Stiles responded, eyebrows coming together slightly in concern.

“You're not safe, not safe. Gotta make you safe.” Scott tugged Stiles towards the door of the loft, wolf whining in his head _protectprotectmakesafemakesafepackpackprotect_. 

“Scott, man, what's with the caveman act? Dude, I'll be fine with you and Derek and the rest of the pack to protect me.” Stiles said lowly, trying to placate the wolf and pull his wrist from Scott's grip whilst not giving into his own fears of being a target.

Scott growled, eyes flashing at the other wolves in the room as he pulled Stiles to him, gaze lingering on creepy Uncle Peter in particular. “Mine. Mine to protect. Mine to make safe. Mine. My pack. Mine!” grated out of his chest as Stiles ineffectually pushed at his shoulder. 

Peter just put his hands up in mock-surrender, mouth quirking slightly in amusement. His attitude of poorly-concealed mockery did nothing to soothe the wolf in Scott, and he clutched Stiles to him a little tighter while letting out a low level rumble of noise. Stiles wouldn't call it an angry-cat sound, at least not in any of the wolves' hearing.

Stiles gave up on the pushing and turned his head to regard the rest of the pack. “Guys, anyone want to tell me what's going on? Or, ya know, help me with this barnacle problem I've suddenly developed?” He received a lot of smirks in return, which, unhelpful.

“Well my dear Stiles,” queue scrunch of the nose from Stiles and slight escalation of the growly noises coming from Scott, “it would seem young Scott here wants to help you out with your. Problem.” Peter oils out, all fake-delicateness and sincerity.

“Problem? What problem?” That wasn't hysterical, it wasn't.

Peter opens his mouth to reply, but is forestalled by Erica jumping in with evident glee. “He wants to pop your cherry. Punch your vcard. Take home-base. Fire the-”

“Wait what!” Ok, maybe slight hysteria.

Isaac's laughing, the curly-haired prick. “Your virginity Stiles. He wants to 'protect' you by removing the 'problem'.” Bastard was channelling Dr Evil. 

This is ridiculous. “What-how-what-I'm not-why do you think-”Stiles splutters, voice rising slightly as he speaks, and yeah ok the hysteria is ramping up here, but can you blame him?

Peter takes a long and deliberate sniff of the air, causing Scott to snap his teeth in the former-Alpha's direction and Derek to look a little green around the gills. The rest of the pack look a little nauseous too, which, odd. Can an Alpha transmit feelings like that to his betas? 

Stiles will have to investigate that later, because creeper-Peter stops sniffing like a golden retriever to answer. “We can smell it, Stiles. It's lovely, all innocent and untouched and delicious”.

Stiles will deny that he shrieked until the day that he dies. And even if he did, it's probably a fair reaction to a creepy zombie-wolf with tendencies towards paedophilia commenting about how he's a _virgin_ who smells _delicious_.

Scott is definitely not pleased with Peter's comments. He releases Stiles and springs across the room at Peter, claws out, eyes blazing and teeth at the ready. Derek looks on, smug expression on his face, as he watches his mostly-an-enemy uncle get pinned to a wall by a teen wolf. 

“Never speak about Stiles like that again! You stay the hell away from him or I swear to God I'll ask Lydia for that molotov cocktail recipe and this time I'll make sure you stay in the ground!” 

It's remarkable how hanging around werewolves can make you an expert in understanding garbled English when spoken through a jaw filled with sharp canine incisors, it really is. 

Scott snaps his teeth in Peter's face again to drive home his point, and takes Peter's lowering of his gaze as a sign of submission, even though everyone can see that it's really not, before rushing back to Stiles and starting to tug him towards the door again. 

Whatever. Peter's still weak from that whole Frankenstein thing. Scott could take him.

Stiles stumbles a bit, so Scott turns, picks him up and throws him over his shoulder. And yeah, werewolf strength is kinda hot. He splutters a bit in response, but figures he'll be able to talk to Scott about what's going on more freely without a pack of douches listening in anyway. Plus, he knows Scott would never hurt him.

“Get it Stiles!”

Erica never could resist having the last word.


	2. Grrr, Grug take pretty Stiles to cave now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this gets pretty sexual...please forgive me if it's not good! Like I said, I've never written smut before :)
> 
> Also added a few tags to the story just fyi.

Stiles sits on his bed, watching Scott pace the room as he reins his wolf in completely. He'd visibly relaxed the further they got away from the rest of the pack, and seemed almost entirely calm when he'd stepped into Stiles' room and took in the teenage-boy scent.

“God Stiles, I'm sorry for going all weird on you. I didn't hurt you did I?” Scott finally turned and looked at Stiles, his features twisted a little in shame.

Stiles breathed out in relief, glad to have his friend back to normal. “No Scotty, you didn't. You wanna explain what that was though? Cos, dude, I know I'm a virgin ok. And I know that that might make me a target” he spoke over Scott's little growl at that thought, “but that? That was weird. I mean, the whole 'he wants to punch your vcard' thing? Erica was just being Erica, right?” 

Letting out an explosive breath and dropping his hands to his sides, Scott considered his best friend for a moment, thinking about what he was going to say to that question. 

Now that his head was a little clearer and less wolf-crazed, he could recognise that what he'd felt when he'd thought of Stiles possibly _dying_ at the hands of the Darach was more than concern for his best friend. But he couldn't tell Stiles, his brother from another mother, his best bro for over ten years, that. It'd freak him out, right? So he bent the truth. Omitted facts. He did _not_ lie.

“You're my best friend Stiles, and the thought of losing you kind of made my wolf crazy. You're pack. _My_ pack. I have to protect you, and if that means that,” gulp “we get it on, then that's something that I'll do. If- if, you know, you're interested.”

“And the 'grrr, Grug take pretty Stiles to cave now' thing? Because that didn't sound like just 'doing your duty' and offering to sex me up bro. That sounded. Well. It sounded territorial. Not that, ya know, anyone else in the room was making the moves on me, offering to have wild, freaky, werewolf sex to save the Stiles from becoming Darach cannon-fodder. Except maybe creeper Peter, which, eww.” Rambling, it's a thing that sometimes happens when Stiles is around. Get used to it.

Scott had hoped that Stiles wouldn't be all that focussed on _that_ aspect of the pack-meeting-from-hell. “I guess it kind of was. You're my friend Stiles, and we may be pack now, but you were my pack first. And I guess my wolf still sees you as mine? I'm sorry. I know it's weird. And, like, we don't have to do anything if you don't want to. We can try and hook you up with someone from school or something if you want?” 

Oh man, the wolf did not like that idea AT ALL. And nor did Scott really. Who else would take care of Stiles like Scott would? Who else knew Stiles like Scott did?

“Do _you_ want to?”

“Want to what?” Deliberate obtuseness comes in really handy sometimes.

Stiles sighed, the tips of his ears heating. “Scott. Seriously. I don't want this to be weird between us. I don't want it to ruin us. So. Do you want to. Have, you know, sex. With me. Cos this can't just be some awkward thing we do, ok, I can't do that. Pretty sure I'd rather risk maybe dying at the Darach's hand than lose you as a friend because of some misguided attempt for you to be all sacrificing and shit and force yourself to have sex with me.” 

Stiles looked away, a slightly bitter look on his face at the last bit of his sentence. And shit, this wasn't how it was meant to go. Stiles wasn't meant to feel like Scott was just going to 'suffer through it' or some other crap like that.

Scott crossed to the bed, sitting next to Stiles and forcing his chin up to meet his gaze. Stiles frowned slightly, searching Scott's face as their eyes bored into one another. Scott leaned in slightly, his eyes locked with Stiles'. The human boy licked his lips, probably nervous, and Scott couldn't keep the hitch in his breath quiet. A moment of puzzlement flickered across Stiles' face, followed by slowly-dawning comprehension. And hope. Scott definitely saw hope.

“It's not just duty Stiles. There's no 'forcing' myself. I want to. I really want to.” He muttered before closing the distance between their lips. Stiles let out a little sigh of breath as their mouths began that well-known dance, tongues flickering against each other gently as they began to map out one another's mouths.

Scott broke the kiss slightly to start gently pushing Stiles down on to the bed, but kept his lips against the other boys' as he whispered “Stiles, tell me you want this.” And Jesus, fuck, his heart was pounding away in his chest after a kiss! Just a kiss! He shuddered slightly thinking of what it would be like to actually _be with_ Stiles.

Stiles seemed to search Scott's eyes for a second before murmuring “Yes. Scott, fuck, just. Yes.”, fitting his lips back into the gaps in Scott's own and bringing his hands up to run sinful fingers through Scott's dark hair. He tugged slightly, bringing Scott's mouth closer, and Scott followed the pressure with the rest of his body, settling between Stiles' parted thighs and resting his elbows and forearms on either side of Stiles' head. 

Their lips continued to move together softly, the passion slowly building. Scott claimed dominance and deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into Stiles' mouth to lightly brush against the roof of it. 

Stiles whimpered in response, shuddering in Scott's arms and hitching his hips up slightly and without thought. Their clothed erections shifted against one another with the movement, and Scott's smug smirk quickly turned into a groan of pleasure.

Stiles' hands fisted in Scott's hair, gasping, as Scott began to rub their crotches together with intent, trailing his right hand down Stiles' chest and inching it up and under the prone boys' Captain America tee. His blunt nails lightly scraping across Stiles' abdomen, Scott attacked Stiles' mouth with fervour, licking his way into his mouth aggressively.

“Scott! Scott, please, Scotty, do something or I'm gonna- don't make me come in my pants Scotty, that would be a total bro-foul ugh-” Stiles whines breathily, cutting off as Scott leans back slightly to literally rip the shirt off Stiles' torso. 

And fuck. That shouldn't be hot (because Scott just committed an act of public fucking vandalism and like anti-patriotism and shit because that shirt was a Captain America shirt for fucks' sake), but Jesus fucking Christ on a mother-fucking cracker, it's the hottest thing Stiles has ever _seen_ let alone experienced.

“You owe me a shirt.”

“Stiles, I'm about to fuck you and you're worried about your shirt? I must be doing something wrong.”

“Yes, yes you are. You've still got all your clothes on. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.” Stiles pants, chest arching up to meet Scott's questing tongue.

Scott licks his way across Stiles left nipple before blowing cool air across it and leaning back to pull his own shirt off. 

“Fuck fuck fuckity fuck, do that again.” Stiles moans, hands sliding over perfect abs in appreciation. 

Stiles appreciates those abs, yes he does. They are a work of art and oh fuck Scott's mouthing at Stiles right nipple now, his right hand tweaking and rolling its' pebbled and still slick twin.

“Your dad's on night shift right?”

And how the hell does Scott expect Stiles to be able to answer _questions_ when his teeth are tugging at Stiles nipple like that?

“Ugh, yes. Night shift. Yes.”

“Good.” Scott mutters, mouth trailing kisses down Stiles' sternum, interspersed with nips and sucking bites that have Stiles biting his own fist to keep from crying out. Scott notices Stiles' attempts to stifle his noises, reaching up to tug his hand from between his teeth. “Don't. Wanna hear you scream for me.”

“Jesus Christ, when did you get so cocky?”

Scott simply smirks in reply, deft fingers making short work of Stiles' belt buckle and jeans as he nibbles at newly-revealed hip-bones. And holy shit does the wolf like the marks blooming across Stiles' torso and hips, physical signs that _this_ is Scott's, his property, his pack, **his**. Welp, guess the caveman's back.

Stiles lifts his hips as Scott almost rips his jeans and boxers off, suddenly naked as the day he was born and so fucking turned on. Scott appraises his body, growling in pleasure and approval at what he sees, and Stiles' dick twitches at the sound, a bit of pre-come leaking out. 

And surely that's not a normal reaction to a werewolf who is- holy shit about to swallow your cock down. Yep. There it is. Cock. In. Scott's. Mouth. Achievement unlocked. Alert the presses. Inform the President cos this is legit something that is happening right fucking now.

Scott chuckles around his mouthful, so Stiles probably just said all of that out loud. Which is fine. Who needs a brain mouth filter when your brain is currently being _sucked out of your fucking cock_ anyway? No brain equals no need for filter right?

Scott does something with his tongue at the head of Stiles' penis, tip flicking into the slit before swirling around the mushroomy head, mouth sliding back down the shaft. Stiles almost doubles over in pleasure.

“Scott, Scott, seriously, I'm gonna-” Stiles pants desperately, trying to warn Scott or pull him off because ejaculation is fucking _imminent_ , Stiles is going to erupt like a fucking _geyser_ if Scott keeps that shit up.

Scott pulls off with an obscene 'pop', licking his lips like he'd just been eating ice-cream. Penis flavoured ice-cream. Stiles might giggle. It's a surreal experience ok? It's not everyday your best friend admits he wants to bone you and then proceeds to gobble your cock down. Stiles is handling this as best he can, thank you very much.

Scott reaches into the drawer beside Stiles' desk, pulling out a half-used tube of lube.

“What? You think this is going to be the first time I've had something in my arse Scotty? I may be a virgin but I'm not completely inexperienced.” Stiles snipes in response to the raised eyebrow of judgy judginess. Derek Hale must give lessons in eyebrow speak when Stiles isn't around. Maybe it's a prerequisite for werewolfdom.

Scott snorts, slicking up a couple of fingers and nudging Stiles knees up so his feet are planted flat on the mattress.

Stiles thinks that maybe he should feel a little embarrassed about being so exposed to someone he'd always considered a quasi-brother (a hot, built brother), but he finds he simply has no fucks to give as Scott starts to rub his fingers gently across Stiles' rim. He shivers a little at the sensation, watching through hooded eyes as Scott drops to his stomach to watch himself work.

A finger starts to gently work it's way in, lube and relaxation from an amazing blow-job slicking the way. Scott pushes in to the second knuckle, crooking slightly as he does so, before beginning a slow and steady rhythm. 

Stiles gasps as Scott's finger briefly dances across his prostate, spreading his legs wider in invitation. Scott takes it, slipping a second finger in on the next thrust.

Mewling a little as Scott skates his fingers across his prostate again and again and licks at the tip of his dick, Stiles pants as Scott pushes deeper, scissoring his fingers slightly. 

“Oh fuck Scott. Fuck. Jesus. Another. I can take another.”

Chest rumbling in response, Scott gently eases a third finger past Stiles' rim, watching avidly as his pucker clenches around it before accepting it as easily as the first two. He ruts slowly at the bed below him, seeking friction to ease the ache in his pants.

Stiles whimpers as he feels the bed rocking with Scott's movements, aching at the thought of Scott rubbing one out against the bed instead of inside Stiles as they both clearly want. “'m ready Scott, get up here.” He breathes out, nerve endings tingling, so good, so good.

Leaping to his feet with a growl, Scott rips his own pants off quickly, setting boxers and jeans flying haphazardly into some unknown corner of Stiles' room. He slicks himself up quickly with another squirt from the tube of lube, moving into position on the bed once again and man-handling Stiles on to his hands and knees with grunts, nudges and a grated out command of “knees, Stiles, knees”.

“Jesus Christ, you really have gone caveman on me haven't you?” Stiles questions breathily, not-so-secretly enjoying the strength Scott uses to flip him onto his front.

Scott pauses at this, clearly pulling back the wolf, concerned that he's been too aggressive. “Stiles? I. I can stop. We don't have to.”

Stiles senses his hesitation and kicks himself internally. “Fuck no Scotty. It's hot. Love it when you use your wolfy strength in the sack.” He responds before folding his arms underneath his head, arse in the air like he's seen in way too many pornos. “Want you Scott, need you to fuck me.”

Whimpering in response to the position that Stiles has taken (it's fucking presenting is what it is, and Christ on a bike does his wolf like that visual), Scott moves back in, gliding the tip of his dick up the cleft of Stiles' arse and skimming over his pucker. It flutters in response, and Scott has to fight the urge to rut in fast and hard.

Stiles hisses slightly as he begins the push in, head catching on the rim before edging past. Scott slides in slowly, Stiles' hand on his hip pulling him in a clear indication that stopping would be very unwelcome right now. 

When he's fully seated, front of his thighs flush against the backs of Stiles', he pauses to breath in harshly and give Stiles time to adjust. He can hear Stiles panting shallowly, body slowly unclenching and relaxing from the intrusion.

“Scott. Scott, move, please. Just. Fuck!” Stiles wails as Scott pulls out and thrusts back in, smooth and deep and sliding his way right over Stiles' prostate. 

Holy flying spaghetti monster, his fingers have _never_ felt this good. It burns, but it's a good burn, the burn you get from laughing too much. Plus, it's interspersed with toe-curling prostate stimulation which is all kinds of winning in Stiles' book.

Scott builds a steady rhythm, rotating his hips slightly as he pistons in and out to tease Stiles with intermittent and unexpected prostate brushes. Because there's nothing quite like driving Stiles up the wall until he gets all mouthy. There's a reason Scott's best friends with him after all. It's fucking entertaining.

“Scott! Scott you fucking bastard! Just. Ugh. There. Right there. Just. No! You missed it! Why do you keep- ah yes! Fuck! No! Stop missing it!”

Scott might snicker. Just a little. Stiles is just so endearing with his moans and whimpers.

“You're doing this on-ah! Purpose aren't you!”

Hips moving harder, faster, Scott leans down to mouth at Stiles' neck. “So good Stiles. So loud. Like hearing you. Like how much you want it.” He says as he snaps his hips, deliberately avoiding Stiles' prostate once again.

_Well_ , Stiles thinks, _two can play at this game mother-fucker_. “I bet-” gasp “I bet Derek-” pant “wouldn't miss my prostate. Maybe-” moan “maybe I should have asked him to fuck me.”

The growl Stiles gets in reply would terrify any sane human being. Stiles dick twitches instead, spurting out another bit of pre-come as Scott suddenly pushes Stiles chest against the bed, slamming into Stiles hard and nailing his prostate over and over. 

“Mine! My Stiles!” He pants between thrusts.

“Yes! Yes! There right there!” Stiles' moans as his orgasm roars up on him. “Close, so close. Just a little more Scott, please!” 

Pace becoming erratic, Scott leans forward once more to bite harshly at the juncture between Stiles' neck and shoulder, blunt human teeth leaving a mark that will be visible unless Stiles starts wearing turtle-necks and scarves. _And that wouldn't look at all suspicious in July_ Scott thinks to himself, pleased.

It's too much for Stiles, and he comes with a sharp cry of Scott's name, cum spattering across the bed-spread below him as his body starts to take on the consistency of custard left in the sun.

The smell of Stiles' release, combined with the clenching of his walls and the hoarseness of his cry, has Scott following him over the edge barely ten seconds later, his cock buried deep in Stiles as he rides out the waves of his orgasm. He collapses, pulling the slighter boy with him so they're both laid on their sides, Scott wilting slowly inside Stiles.

They're both breathing hard, sweat drying on their bodies and cum on Stiles' chest and the bed beside them. 

Scott reaches over, swiping his finger through the mess on Stiles' abdomen before bringing it to his lips to taste. His first thought is that it doesn't really taste good or bad, just like Stiles. His second is that the texture is fucking disgusting and why the fuck are there so many videos about people enjoying that shit? He says as much to Stiles, who laughs tiredly in response, well-fucked and starting to doze off.

“So that line about Derek really did it for you huh?” Stiles rasps, voice wrecked from how verbal he'd gotten (turns out Scott's not so much a cocky bastard after all).

Scott growls again, fitting his teeth against the bite mark on Stiles' neck. “Mine.”

“Yours.” Stiles murmurs as his eyes flutter shut, sleep overtaking him. Scott quickly follows.


	3. Good morning Starshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I should explain re the pack just in case I get questions: Erica and Boyd didn't run off at the end of season 2, they were released from the Argent's basement and returned to Derek. I'm vague on what the 'accepting them back' thing was like for everyone. Also, Jackson and Lydia are fully-fledged pack-members now that Jackson's been de-kanima'ed.

The blinds were closed, and yet the light of a thousand suns was burning through the tiny gap at the edge and right in Stiles' eyes with fucking laser precision. 

“Gnf. F'k'ng sun. Fug off.” He groans, rolling over to try and prevent the ultraviolet rape of his eyeballs. He stops as he comes flush up against another body, face down and sprawled out on the edge of his bed. 

And he remembers everything. 

Scott's face as he'd told Stiles he wanted him. Scott's lips as he'd kissed him. Scott's voice as he'd talked dirty to him. Scott's mouth as he'd swallowed him down, and Scott's cock as it'd breached him, pressure so so good. And yep, he could feel the aftermath: slight ache in his arse, cum and lube on his thighs, and a languid sense of pleasure still coiling deep in his bones.

Stiles considers last night and what they'd done and finds that he doesn't feel awkward about it at all. Scott was his best friend (was more than that really), and they'd had sex. Amazing, mind-blowing sex. And Stiles can't think of anyone else he'd rather have done it with, or anywhere else he'd rather be right now.

He finds himself hoping that Scott feels the same as his eyelids close once more.

 

*****

 

The next time Stiles wakes, he blinks his way to the surface of consciousness only to find two warm brown eyes staring down at him.

“Hey.” 

“Mornin' Starshine.” He responds blearily. Scott's laughter shakes the bed.

“How you feeling?”

“Like I got fucked through the mattress and mauled by a possessive caveman.”

Scott laughs again, sweeping a hand back through his bed-hair. “Well, next time don't bring up Derek when I'm balls deep.”

“Jerk.”

“Fuck you.”

“Been there, done that, didn't waste my money on the t-shirt.” 

“Pfft,” Scott says. “You'd've bought a shirt if there'd been one. All 'Oh Scott, Scott, take me! Take me now!'” He fakes a swoon, because he's a prick like that.

“Whatever, Grug the cave-troll. At least I managed more than monosyllabic grunting. You were totally enjoying this arse.” Stiles slaps his booty with all the attitude of a feisty black woman, fingers clicking spastically.

Scott responds by grabbing said booty in two hands, pulling Stiles towards himself while simultaneously rolling on top of the slighter boy. “Sure did.” He says, cocky, as he leans in to kiss Stiles again.

And Stiles can't handle so much cocky this early in the morning, so he shoves Scott back playfully. “Hells no, jizz breath! Teeth, then kissing, then breakfast, and maybe more kissing. Up! Up up!” 

Scott follows him out of bed, grin on his face. “I'll give you jizz breath.”

“I'm sure you will.” Stiles replies saucily, looking over his shoulder.

Scott can't be held responsible for chasing him into the bathroom. Or for holding Stiles against the door-frame as his tongue fucks into his mouth. 

Dental hygiene can kiss Scott's arse.

 

*****

 

Stiles sets a plate of eggs and bacon down in front of Scott before taking his own seat at the table and pouring them both some OJ.

“This should be awkward. Why's it not awkward?” Scott asks after cramming a strip of bacon in his gob, flecks of food flying out as he speaks. And people cringe at Stiles' eating habits.

“Dunno.”

Scott shrugs as if that answer's fair enough, and to him it probably is. They've been friends for so long that it seems like it's impossible for awkward to actually exist between them anymore. The ability was probably lost somewhere between discovering that touching their dicks was pretty damn enjoyable and finding half a dead body in the woods.

They eat in silence for a bit, occasionally swatting at each other's hands, childish and giggling, as they both reach for the same piece of toast. It's comfortable, known. This is just what they _do_ when they're together. Nothing will ever change that fundamental building block of their relationship.

“So Derek texted. He wants everyone around for another meeting in an hour.” Scott says as he picks his and Stiles' empty plates up and takes them to the sink to wash. Stiles wordlessly follows and picks up a dish towel, ready to dry as Scott hands the dishes off.

“Probably wants to discuss tactics for the Darach again, without interruption.” Stiles smirks at Scott out of the corner of his eye.

Scott huffs in reply. “Pretty sure we both appreciated the interruption.”

Stiles can't argue with that, so he just grins as he finishes drying the dishes.

“We should go shower.” Stiles states as he slides the last knife away in the drawer. "We probably smell pretty ripe right now, right?”

The satisfied smirk on Scott's face tells him everything he needs to know.

“Right. I'll go first. I may take a while, I feel like I've got cum _everywhere_.”

Scott grabs his arm as he goes to leave, and Stiles turns, raising an eyebrow in question. 

(He's been practicing his eyebrow maneuvering off and on for at least 6 months, and he doesn't want to brag or anything, but that mofo actually moves how he wants it to now. Sometimes. Like, four times out of ten. The other six times people just say he looks constipated. Whatever. We can't all have wriggly, mutant eyebrows like Derek Hale.)

“Don't.” That's a pout. Scott is pouting. What the fuck is his life?

“Don't what?”

And Scott might look a little embarrassed now, ears flushing slightly, but he keeps his hold on Stiles' arm and looks directly in his eyes as he repeats his request. “Don't wash it off.”

Stiles pauses, wondering what Scott's talking about before it finally clicks and he grins, bright and big. “You want me to keep your cum in me Scotty? Want the others to be able to smell it?”

The pout morphs into a determined look, possessiveness glinting in Scott's eyes as he pushes Stiles against a wall. And Stiles and walls are pretty well acquainted, but usually it's Derek doing the pushing and he's pretty sure it's never been for the reason that Scott's doing it right now. Which is pretty ok in Stiles' book, because Derek Hale may be hot like burning but he's also a bit of a douche.

“Stop talking about Derek.” Scott growls, pushing his hips into Stiles' roughly. 

And hello morning wood, guess it really does take a beating to keep you down and out for the count. 

Scott growls again, rolling his lower body. “You're still talking you know.” 

Goddammit, Stiles and his brain mouth filter are going to have to have a serious discussion about its' tendency to go AWOL.

“That's it, isn't it? You want the others to be able to smell you on me, smell what we did.”

“Smell that you're mine.”

“What makes you think I'm yours?” Stiles responds, teasing.

Scott hisses out a “Stiles!” before latching on (Stiles would say like a vampire, but he's not touching that cliche with a fucking ten-foot pole) to the tender spot on Stiles neck, teeth sinking in again to refresh last night's bruise.

Gasping then groaning at the sensation, Stiles grinds his hips up into Scott's, fingers tangling in his hair. “Fuck Scott! Ok, ok. I won't wash it all off. But I'm still showering.”

Scott leans back, a pleased grin on his face as he looks at his mark, smugness radiating off of him at Stiles' capitulation. “Good.”

Stiles can't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all before attacking Scott's lips again. Scent was, after all, a two-way street.

 

*****

 

As soon as Scott and Stiles walk through Derek's door, they're met with a chorus of protesting voices and various levels of stink-eye.

“For fuck's sake! You could have at least showered!” Jackson shouts, face twisted like he's smelled a rotting carcass, Isaac fake-vomiting in the background.

Stiles blushes, hand coming up to scratch at the mark on his neck. 

Drifting forward slightly from Jackson's side, Lydia eyes the hickie-on-steroids before turning a smirk on Scott. “Nice work. I'd say the message has been received, loud and clear.”

Scott preens. He fucking _preens_. Dickwad.

Stiles rolls his eyes, fighting down a fond grin as he glances at Scott.

“Well. Someone's been busy. Good night Stiles?” Peter asks, winking and leering at the same time, and how the fuck is that even possible? His eyes rove over Stiles' body lasciviously, his interest clear.

Stiles readies a feisty “fuck off” and accompanying hand signal, but before he can do either Scott's got his claws in Peter's shoulder, other hand twisting Peter's arm behind his back as he forces the older man to his knees.

“I told you to stop talking about Stiles like that!” 

His eyes seem to flash red in between the yellow, and Stiles will later write it off as just a trick of the light. Or encroaching psychosis. Right now, he's just as shocked as everyone else at the blood welling up from the punctures in Peter's shoulder.

“Scott!”

“And new rule: if I ever see you looking at Stiles like that again I'll rip you fucking eyes out you sick pervert!” The snarl that accompanies this threat raises the hairs on Stiles' arms.

“Scott! Back off!” Derek steps up, eyes flashing red as he commands Scott away.

Scott resists for another couple of seconds, growl punctuated by a clenching of his claws in Peter's shoulder before he releases and moves back to Stiles' side.

Peter, strangely enough, remains passive throughout the experience, but his gaze at Scott when he finally gets to his feet is considering. 

“Well,” he mutters, exchanging glances with his nephew, “that's certainly an interesting turn of events. No need to get so defensive, Scott. I won't harm your pretty little ma-”

“Peter, enough.” Derek snaps, eyes darting between Scott and Stiles, expression pensive.

Stiles' heart thumps in his chest, adrenaline slowly being replaced by arousal as he peeks at Scott. There's no denying it: Caveman Scott is hot as sin. And from the look that he's getting in return, Scott can tell where his head's at. 

“Oh for Christ's sake, Stilinski, keep it in your pants.” Jackson mutters from across the room, the scent of Stiles' interest obviously registering with the other wolves. Stiles isn't embarrassed. Threats of eye-gouging have never been so sexy.

“I guess we won't be using Stiles as bait anymore.” Boyd announces from the couch where he's got his arm draped around Erica. 

And since when had that been a legitimate fucking plan? The glare that Stiles shoots him, accompanied by Scott's low rumble of warning and the possessive hand on Stiles' back, declares that shit never would have flown anyway.

“Should we adjourn and think of a new plan then? There are sales at Hollister and Abercrombie and Fitch that I really must get to.” Lydia asks, studying her nails. 

Erica perks up at that and glances at Lydia, face set in an expression that Stiles assumes means something along the lines of 'Oh really? I had not heard of such a sale. That does sound like a pleasant way to spend the day. Would you mind if I accompanied you?'. He assumes Lydia's regal incline of the head means something like 'But of course! Shopping is ever so much fun. I would be pleased to have your company'. 

(Stiles isn't sure why Erica and Lydia appear to be channeling well-bred young ladies from the turn of last century in his head. But there's a lot of shit that goes on in there that Stiles' brain chooses not to brief him on, so he just marks this down as another one of those times.) 

More importantly, Scott's hand has been steadily dipping down from the small of Stiles' back and has currently taken up residence in right-cheek territory. Stiles really wants to do something about that. He wants to do many things about that. Possibly starting off with this morning's insinuation of reciprocal blow-jobs.

Apparently the surge of arousal that accompanies this thought is too much for even Derek to bear, because he glares in Stiles' direction before grating out a “Fine! Everyone get out!”. And then it's like a stampede of teenage-shaped elephants heads towards the door.

Scott smirks as Stiles drags him down the stairs.

“Get it Scott!”

Fucking Erica.


	4. Stiles and the art of banana pleasuring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I feel like I really struggled with this chapter, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. But it's somewhere around 2500 words of smut so...idk? Comments are always appreciated :)

Stiles pushes Scott up against his bedroom door, mouth latched on to Scott's own, panting against his lips. 

“Your mum. When's she due home.” 

Trailing his hands down Stiles' back and into the pockets of his jeans, Scott hauls Stiles forward to grind their pelvises together.

“Couple- couple of hours.”

“Awesome.” Stiles moans, shaft hardening in his pants as Scott pushes a thigh between his legs and rocks into Stiles once more.

“Fuck. Fuck Stiles. Bed.” Scott mutters as Stiles practically gnaws on his neck in an attempt to create a hickie that won't fade with super-healing. The displeased noise Stiles makes as his attempt fails makes Scott chuckle.

“Shuddup. You've got your mark on me, wish I could do the same.”

And that. That goes straight down Scott's spine to his cock, warmth spreading through his body at the thought that Stiles wants to claim him, mark him as much as he does Stiles. Sometimes he forgets that Stiles can be a possessive bastard too. Which shouldn't be a surprise, given fourth grade and the never-to-be-mentioned-again Colgate incident of 2005.

They stumble towards Scott's bed while still joined at the lips and hips. Scott's supernatural senses keep them upright until Stiles' knees meet the edge of the bed and he flails backwards, Scott making sure to keep his arms locked around him protectively. The 'oomph' sound Stiles lets out when he lands buzzes against Scott's lips, and he pulls away for breath before trailing his mouth down to the bite on Stiles' neck.

“Jesus Christ Scotty, I think everyone got the picture.”

Scott smirks against the skin, flicking his tongue out one more time to lave over the spot before nibbling his way down to Stiles' collarbone.

“Uh uh.” Stiles proclaims, hands pushing against Scott's shoulders to stop him. 

Scott makes a quizzical sound in his throat when denied access to the collarbone he wants to mark up next.

“My turn.” Stiles insists, pushing Scott back so his head rests on the pillows. The sound Scott makes this time is definitely more approving.

Stiles straddles Scott's hips, biting his lip nervously. Up until now, Scott's definitely been the one in charge and Stiles is just a little bit afraid that, now that he's taken the reins, Scott might realise how much less experience he has in this- whatever this is.

“Hey.” Scott says gently as he reaches up to to thumb Stiles' lip out from between his teeth. “No pressure Stiles. Just do what feels right.” His eyes are soft and glowing slightly, looking up at Stiles with a look Stiles has only ever seen directed at Allison before.

And fuck if that's not mind-blowing right there. Stiles never considered that Scott would look at him like that. Like he invented pizza rolls or porn or X-box or something equally amazing.

Confidence buoyed by the gesture, Stiles leans down to kiss Scott sweetly, a non-verbal thanks. He knows Scott understands what he's saying without him having to say it, and it makes his heart skip a little faster; because this right here is something that Stiles wasn't sure would translate from best friends to lovers, this ability to almost read each other's minds, to know the other person so well it's like an extension of themselves. It's amazing is what it is.

The kiss intensifies, Stiles inching his tongue between Scott's teeth and scraping over them lightly. He can feel Scott shiver beneath him, his cock twitching against Stiles' thigh, and it makes him feel powerful, his ability to rip such reactions out of Scott a major turn-on. 

Rubbing himself sinuously against Scott's body, Stiles begins to nip his way across Scott's uneven (but so frickin hot) jawline, tongue soothing the path behind teeth. He nibbles at Scott's earlobe, tongue darting out to glide across the sensitive hollow behind. 

“Fuck Stiles!”

His mouth begins to trail down the side of Scott's neck, and it amazes him that Scott's wolf allows him so close to such a vulnerable area without protest. He says so between biting kisses to Scott's clavicle, shirt collar pulled aside for access.

“The wolf, the wolf's fucking down with it. So down with it. And so am I, Jesus Stiles! Your fucking mouth!” Scott pants, hips twitching up to meet Stiles' still undulating lower body.

Stiles would say something smart-arse about all of this, but right now he's busy trying to get Scott's shirt off so he can get his mouth on those perfect fucking abs he saw last night.

“Scott. Scotty, I can't go all caveman and rip your shirt off, so off! Off right now!” Huh. Turns out he can say something smart-arse. Good to know his snark abilities don't wither away during the sexiest of sexy times.

Scott lifts up off the bed slightly to help Stiles pull his shirt over his head, the movement causing their groins to rub together harder. They both moan at the sensation, and Scott thinks he might just come in his pants.

Stiles lets out a pleased noise as Scott sinks back down, chest exposed to Stiles lustful gaze. 

“Jesus Scotty. I swear to God, you let yourself go and lose these muscles and we are done, over, finished. Fuck! I just want to lick you all over.” And he bends down to do so, licking a stripe from the centre of Scott's abdomen up to his throat.

“Good to know that you only want me for my body.” Scott grunts out, hands flexing on Stiles' hips where they'd landed after the big reveal. He digs his fingers in a little where he's sure the bruises he'd left last night are, enjoying the way Stiles writhes against him in memory.

Stiles flicks Scott's exposed right nipple in retaliation before soothing it with his tongue, kitten licks followed by the warmth of his mouth. Scott's head thuds back against the pillows in response, breath stuttering. Smirking his way over to the other nipple, Stile bites gently before repeating his patent-pending soothing treatment. 

“Stiles. Stiles, please.” Scott keens as Stiles continues to roll his hips down on Scott like a mother-fucking porn-star. “I'm not coming in my pants.”

Stiles responds with a smirk. “You implementing the bro foul code there Scotty-boy?”

“Fuck yes. Just. Don't stop- but. I don't know. _Do_ something.”

Stiles shimmies down Scott's body, drawing an almost pained noise out of the wolf. He licks a single stripe from Scott's jeans up his to belly-button before going to work on Scott's pants. Turns out getting pants off when they're impersonating a fucking teepee is much harder than Scott made it look last night, and Stiles curses inventively as his fingers scrabble at the button for a second.

Scott's amused chuckle turns to a whimper as Stiles finally releases his dick from its' cloth prison, breath ghosting over the sensitive head as Stiles breathes heavy with anticipation. Stiles leans back, tugging on Scott's jeans with a command of 'up' which Scott quickly obeys.

Stiles leans back in to Scott, hands resting on his hips as he settles between his legs. He reaches up to kiss Scott again (because as if he could resist that almost-adoring puppy-like look on Scott's face) before beginning his oral trek back down Scott's body, nipping, licking and kissing as he goes.

He stops for a minute to appreciate those abs, mapping out Scott's six-pack with his tongue, dipping into the grooves to lick up the taste of sweat and salt and Scott. Scott fists his hands in Stiles' hair in response, stomach muscles jumping at the attention. Stiles slides his mouth lower, circling Scott's belly-button twice before biting gently at the taut skin above it. Scott swears above him, and when they catch one another's gaze his eyes are flashing between yellow and red again.

“Scott. Your eyes.”

Scott makes an enquiring noise, and when Stiles looks again Scott's eyes have settled back to their rich chocolate brown. Stiles convinces himself he imagined it.

“Never mind.”

“Ok. Um, are you gonna-?”

“Yeah! Shit, sorry, didn't mean to leave you hanging.” Stiles apologises, rushing to get his head down and into Scott's crotch-area so quickly that he almost takes an erect penis to the eye. 

Which, you know, would be an awkward injury to explain. Claw marks? All good. Beaten up by a geriatric man? No probs. Cock to the cornea? Yeah, that's a little awkward. 

“Fuck!”

Scott laughs a little hysterically, breaking the tension when Stiles grins up at him sheepishly. 

The look of fondness that Scott gives him as Stiles picks his left hand back up from where it had fallen to his stomach, kisses the palm and places it back in Stiles' hair goes a long way to alleviate any embarrassment that Stiles might be feeling right now. Scott threads his fingers in, laughter giving way to an encouraging smile.

Stiles takes it more slowly this time, easing himself back down between Scott's legs, long fingers spanning hip to upper thigh. 

Stiles has watched a lot of porn, ok? So he's got many, many ideas for what to do now that he's actually in a position to suck someone off. It's just. Now that he's literally face to dick with a real-life opportunity to put his ideas to the test, he's not entirely sure where to start. So he just breathes, breath ghosting out and over Scott's cock as he tries to align his cock-sucking fantasies into a semblance of order. Scott groans, his dick jumping as Stiles' warm exhalation hits him. And _well_ , Stiles thinks, _I suppose that's as good a place as any to start_.

Grinning smugly to himself, Stiles leans in closer and releases another warm breath against Scott's twitching erection, hands flexing slightly where they rest on the other boy's hips. Scott groans above him in appreciation, fingers skittering across Stiles' scalp in pleasure.

Stiles drags the blunt nails of his right hand across Scott's hip and thigh, scratching lightly at the dark, trimmed hair at the base of Scott's dick (and kudos goes to Scott on the manscaping here, because Stiles is definitely more turned on by the neat crop of hair than he would be by an out-of-control thicket).

“Jesus Stiles-” Scott's voice is raspy and choked. Stiles doesn't know why that's so sexy, but it is.

Flicking his tongue out and over the tip of Scott's flushed cock, Stiles gathers a pearly drop of pre-cum on his tongue, swallowing it with a “hmm, tastes better than I thought it would”. Scott's hand tenses where it lays in Stiles' hair in response, and Stiles hums in pleasure as he takes the head of Scott's dick into his mouth, tongue flitting and curling as he sinks down to swallow the first few inches.

Scott lets out a sound like a dying whale.

Snorting with a mouthful of cock is actually much more difficult than it sounds, what with the restricted mouth movement and air-intake capability. Pulling off is an act of self-preservation really, even if Scott's plaintive whine argues that Stiles is torturing him with a blunt, rusty, wolfsbane-laced butter-knife.

“Oh fuck you Stiles! S'not my fault you've got a mouth like sin-” Scott pants in retaliation, fingers curling in Stiles' hair but not seeking to pressure him to take his cock any further into his mouth.

Stiles pulls off completely, hand jacking the spit-slicked length as he looks up at Scott from underneath his lashes. And are Scott's eyes flashing again? Stiles can't really tell, but the blissed out look on Scott's face is more important anyway. 

“What, didn't Allison, ever go down on you Scotty?” Loki only knows why he's bringing up Allison at a time like this, because it should be all sorts of awkward. But Stiles gets the feeling that the reaction that he'll get from Scott will be well-worth it.

“We're not- Jesus. Allison? You- shit. You bring her up now?” Scott's hips judder up as Stiles flicks his wrist and licks the tip. “Fuck Stiles! Just. Yeah, she did once or twice. But not. Holy fucking Christ,” Stiles mouths at Scott's balls before tonguing his way to the head of Scott's erection and engulfing it in warm heat once again. “She'd never take more than the tip. She didn't like doing it, and- mother fucker! She wasn't anywhere near as good as you.” Scott may growl out a few “mine's” and “so good's” after that, but Stiles is too busy working Scott's dick into his throat to listen.

Stiles had known for quite some time that he appreciated the male form, and that one day he'd like to get all up in that. That at the time being Jake Gyllenhaal, Ryan Gosling, Karl Urban and Zachary Quinto, none of whom were his best friend Scott, but hey. Things change and Stiles is a master of adaptation. A chameleon of feelings. A feelmeleon, one might say. 

But, he does digress. 

The point being: Stiles has practiced the art of trying to deep throat a banana. And while he'll admit that his first attempts were incredibly embarrassing and almost throat-damaging, he can now say that he is an experienced banana-pleasurer. Granted, Scott's penis is not a banana, but surely some of the mechanics still apply?

The biggest difference between Scott's dick and a condom-covered banana, Stiles thinks, is the warm-soft-smooth-hard of it sliding between his lips and over his tongue as he opens his throat to take it in. Also, a banana doesn't spurt tiny bits of pre-cum and jerk upwards as if trying to drive itself down your throat. Scott apologises as Stiles chokes a bit, hands running apologetically down the sides of his face.

Stiles hums and slides back down, because who could hold a grudge against Scott and his puppy eyes? Besides, it's fucking hot knowing that he's got Scott so wound up, control slipping slightly as the backs of his hands get distinctly hairier and fingernails sharpen. Stiles knows that if he looked up right now he'd see fangs. And that shouldn't make Stiles' stomach tighten with the need for release, but it does.

“Stiles. Stiles I'm gonna-” Scott warns, hands tugging lightly to lift Stiles up and off his cock. Stiles ignores the hands and moans happily as he slides back down, Scott's dick as far back in his throat as he can get it in anticipation. “Oh my God, fuck! That's so fuckin hot, Jesus!” Scott practically writhes beneath him as Stiles swallows his load, throat milking him to completion.

Finally, Stiles pulls off with a smacking of lips and a saucy wink. “Can't taste it properly if it's shot straight down your throat.”

Scott lets out a growl as he pounces and drags Stiles up his body, lips seeking out the other boy's mouth as he shoves his pants down and wraps a hand around his cock. Stiles' breathy moan breaks like a wave against Scott's teeth as Scott jerks him fast and sloppy, Stiles rutting into his hand eagerly. It's barely thirty seconds before he tenses, releasing over Scott's hand and stomach.

Lifting his hand to his mouth, Scott's tongue tentatively darts out to lick at some of Stiles' cum. His face twists a little as he mutters “maybe I just have to get used to it. I've heard practice does make perfect.”

Stiles smirks in response as they collapse against one another, limbs entangled and breath coming hard. 

“Fuck.”

“Mmm.”

“Sleep?”

“Mmm.”

Scott chuckles. “Who's monosyllabic now?”

Stiles flips him off.


	5. The Good Ship Sciles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so begins the shoddy updating times...sorry! I'll try and do better :)

“Shit! Stiles! Stiles wake up! My mom's home!” 

Scott's panicky voice is harshing Stiles' post-orgasm-nap buzz, and it is _most_ unwelcome. He flaps his hands around, muffling Scott's protest with a palm over his mouth. “Shush. Sleep now. Talk later.”

The blanket Stiles is busily cocooning himself in is rudely ripped away as hands shove his clothes at him and Scott hisses “Get dressed damn it!”

Stiles blinks blearily in response, looking down at the clothes on the bed beside him and preparing to give Scott a piece of his barely-awake mind. And then he hears Mrs McCall yell up the stairs that she's home and dinner's on the table and how he and Scott should come down before it gets cold. 

“Fuck!” He squeaks, leaping out of bed with all the grace of a flamingo wearing an oversized pair of flippers. Scott saves him from face-planting into the carpet as he's struggling with his pants, but the noises they're making as they frantically try to make themselves decent clearly don't go unnoticed.

“Boys? You alright up there?” Melissa questions, footsteps coming closer as she makes her way up the stairs to check on them.

“Fine! We're fine mom! We'll be down in a second!” Scott pants wildly, eyes wide as he stares at the door and waits for it to open slowly, ominously. Probably while creaking. Cos that's how these things go, right?

Stiles falls over while trying to put his shoes on behind him, squawking indignantly as he thumps to the ground. The look Scott gives him is both exasperated and fond, and Stiles can't help but blush in response.

“Stiles? You sure you're ok in there?”

“Yep! I'm ok Mrs McCall. Just tripped. You know me, clumsy Stiles, tripping over his own feet and what-not!” He yells through the door, clothes and shoes all present and accounted for.

“Ok.” Mrs McCall seems unconvinced. “I'll see you boys downstairs in a second then.” Her footsteps recede back down the stairs, and Scott and Stiles both breath out in relief before grinning at each other smugly.

 

*****

 

“Hey mom, how was work?” Scott asks as he slumps his way into a chair, Stiles grinning as he takes the chair next to him.

“Good. Busy, but not too hectic. I brought home burge-” Her voice abruptly stops as she turns around and takes in their dishevelled appearances. Neither Scott nor Stiles really notice, too busy ripping the bag of food apart to get to the deliciousness inside.

She eyes them suspiciously: hair all over the place, clothes rumpled. And yep. Scott's shirt is on inside out and that is _definitely_ a hickie peeking out above the collar on Stiles' neck.

Melissa McCall is not a stupid woman. She _knows_ what dishevelled teens look like, what a day of gaming and goofing around will do to Scott and Stiles both. But this? This is a whole different level of dishevelment. A level which she has only ever seen on Scott after he'd spent time with Allison.

“Don't eat everything boys, I'm going to invite the Sheriff over for dinner. I'm sure he's due a break from the station about now, right Stiles?” She questions. Stiles nods in agreement, mouth full of wonderful burgery goodness.

Melissa steps out to make a call she knew she'd be making one day. “Sheriff? It's Melissa McCall. Can you come round for dinner? We've got a code Sciles. Repeat: code Sciles.”

 

*****

 

Stiles and Scott are too busy stuffing their faces when the Sheriff turns up to note the significant look that passes between their parents. The Sheriff's eyebrows twitch with barely suppressed amusement as he mutters a “What, they couldn't even take a shower?” before sitting himself down at the table next to Melissa.

Stiles peeks up as he does so, a “Hey dad!” dying on his lips as he notes the expression on his fathers' face and the way his eyes are zeroing in on the place where Stiles _knows_ Scott left a hickie the size of a golf-ball. He gulps dramatically, heart accelerating in his chest and grabbing Scott's attention. Scott looks up and catches the look on Stiles' face, glancing across the table to see that he and Stiles are under the metaphorical parental microscope.

He swallows, smoothing a hand down over his bed-head hair.

“So. Boys. Anything you want to tell us?” The Sheriff questions, no-nonsense face clearly in place.

And shit. This feels like the Spanish Inquisition. Stiles expects any moment that his dad's going to pull out some cliché spotlight and shine it in his eyes, prisoner interrogation style. “Ermm. No? Nope. Nothing to report daddy-o.”

“Really. Scott?”

“Um. No? I don't-” Scott giggles a little hysterically. Stiles kicks him under the table. “No, sir. I don't think there's anything we need to tell you. I mean Stiles and I. I mean me. I don't need to tell anything. Nothing to tell.” 

Stiles' head thumps against the table once beside him in exasperation.

“That so? Well, son, maybe there's something you should tell your mother then? Like maybe why my son looks like he's been mauled and why your shirt is on inside out?”

Scott gapes like a fish as his mother raises an eyebrow. And that is so not fair. Parents shouldn't be allowed to double-team like this. Scott looks at Stiles for help; his face mirrors the horror already on Scott's face, and he'll admit it's a little comforting knowing that he's not alone in this boat in a storm of raised parental eyebrows and awkward lines of questioning.

Across from their sons, Melissa and the Sheriff are fighting the urge to laugh. Both boys look mortified, but they'd agreed many years ago that when the time finally came where Scott and Stiles sorted themselves and their feelings for one another out, they wouldn't pass up the opportunity to make it a bit awkward for them. They're parents. It's part of their job description. And hey, it's not like they would be able to do the age old 'Oh so you're my son's new love interest? Let me pull out _all_ the embarrassing baby photos' schtick, because, well, their sons were in those photos _together_. As a single parent of a teenage boy, one gets one's pleasures where one can. In this situation mercy is an unknown emotion.

“StilesandIaretogether.”

Stiles bangs his head against the table again. Scott, concerned, slips his hand under Stiles' head so he can't injure himself, prompting the Sheriff to cough into his fist while Melissa claps a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“We can tell. Did you even shower, or did you come straight down to dinner from whatever you two were up to earlier? Or did I interrupt you?” Melissa responds, clearly enjoying the embarrassment rolling off her son. 

She's an evil woman, really. Peter's fortunate she hasn't turned her devious mind on him because Stiles is sure he wouldn't even be _alive_ right now, Frankenstein-resurrection plan or not.

Scott chokes on air, eyes wide as he flushes to the tips of his ears. He attempts a denial, but all he can do is stutter uncontrollably under the amused glance of his once-beloved mother.

“I hope you're being safe, whatever you're doing together. Do we need to give you the safe sex talk again? Maybe a little more _tailored_ this time? Melissa, there's got to be some helpful pamphlets at the hospital for this, right?”

“This is torture. You're the worst. Both of you. You should be ashamed. Shame shame shame.” Stiles chants, glaring at his father and his obvious amusement.

“Because safe sex is good sex, Stiles. No glove, no love.” Sheriff Stilinski deadpans.

And Stiles doesn't even _know_ what he must have done in a previous life to warrant this level of parental involvement in his sex life. All he can say with certainty is that this, right here, is by the far the most embarrassing thing that could ever happen to anyone. Ever. This is not how one is meant to come out to one's parents! There should be, like, a slow build-up. A gentle reveal. Not this Monty Python-style Spanish Inquisition rolled in a batter of parental amusement and coated in a thin veneer of mortification.

“Wait! Why do you automatically assume that I'm the-” 

Scott's elbow quite possibly fractures a rib as he jams it into Stiles' side. “Stiles!” he hisses, “shut up!”

There's an awkward moment where Melissa sounds like she's stifling a snort before she says “Oh, I think they're well educated enough, Sheriff. But I'm sure I could find some suitably embarrassing literature.”

“Oh my God mom, please. Please stop!”

“Now. Do we need to have the 'coming to grips with your sexuality' conversation too? Because you should both know that we've been expecting this for a while. Sciles. We ship it.” Melissa replies, brushing Scott's pleas aside to enjoy the look of horrified embarrassment on her little boys' face.

Stiles feels like he's in an over-the-top soap opera where his fate is gradually being revealed. With overly serious music and dramatic pauses and a growing sense of this being the end of days. Of Stiles' days. Because surely no man can survive having so much blood rush to their face like this.

“Sciles- what, I don't-”

“Shipping Scott. Sciles, to be precise. Your mom and I have been sailing the good ship Sciles for quite some time now. I'll admit, Scallison was a rocky patch for us, but you two got it together in the end!”

Stiles shoves his chair back quickly, choking out “movie. We're gonna go see a movie” as he yanks Scott out of his seat and herds him out of the room.

“Ok love-birds. Have a good time!” Melissa sings out as two red-faced boys stumble out the front door.

The Sheriff gives her a well-earned high five.


	6. No one wants to clean up after a werewolf throw-down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I suck I know. Unfortunately updates may become increasingly unpredictable, as I've got shit going on IRL...life-changing, skipping-the-country type stuff. All good and exciting, but also rather dispruptive! I swear I'll do my best though :)
> 
> Also...Ethan. He somehow became a total douche as I was writing this. Don't know how, as I didn't intend it to go quite so creep-tastic. Please let me know if you feel I should have added more tags :)
> 
> As always, please keep the comments coming! Knowing that this is actually being read and liked makes me want to write...

The last few weeks of summer vacation pass in much the same manner: Scott and Stiles screwing around (in both the literal and figurative sense), interspersed with slowly-less-awkward pack meetings and parental dinners. 

(Except for the chat that Papa Stilinski insisted that he and Stiles have about how just because being with Scott was something that he and Melissa wanted and it seemed _logical_ as a next step in their Scott &Stilesness, doesn't mean that Stiles should feel _pressured_ in any way to be with his best friend. And sweet baby Jesus, that conversation will live in infamy in Stiles' memory for the rest of his life. Because having to convince his father that there was no _pressuring_ going on between the two of them? Having to try and stutteringly convey _feelings_ of a _sexual_ and _romantic_ nature about his BFF to his father in as non-specific a fashion as possible so as not to scar them both for ever? (Because telling his _dad_ that Scott is hot as fuck and riding his dick is quickly becoming his favourite thing ever is a total no-go.) Yeah. Difficult. Like dealing with a kanima difficult. Stiles was pretty sure he'd rather be back in that god-forsaken pool holding up dead-weight-Derek and snorting chlorine while his limbs felt like they were covered in napalm.)

It feels pretty much like any other summer, except there's mutual orgasms, which is a splendid fucking development and Christ! Why didn't it happen earlier?

And much like any other summer, the end of vacation heralds Lydia's traditional back-to-school soiree. The main difference this time being that, not only are they actually _officially_ invited, but they're going _together_ together. It'll be the first time that they've done anything _coupley_ outside of the realms of pack and family, and it's a bit of big deal really. 

Stiles spends an inordinately long time that morning staring into his closet trying to pick out what to wear, but who can blame him? He's going to a party with Scott 'boy-next-door-slash-model' McCall, and he wants to look _good_. So good that people will ask Scott who his arm-candy is and where's his spastic, plaid-clad side-kick? You know, the one who vomits words like he's recovering from an alcohol-fueled weekend of debauchery.

Which is how he finds himself poked and prodded into a two hour 'make-over' session with one Lydia Martin less than an hour after ransacking his own wardrobe. Because, as she told him when she waltzed in to his mess of a room and studied the damage, she always knew the day would come when he'd beg her for fashion advice and assistance in finding a properly-fitting pair of jeans. 

Stiles will insist, for the record, that there was no begging. But when Lydia Martin snaps her fingers at you and says “Shopping. Now”, you get your inner-Paris Hilton on and shop like it's your one true calling.

“Well Stiles, you actually have an arse. Congratulations, I never would have known.” She snipes, waving a finger in the air so he twirls like a puppet on a string. They're in Diesel, and Stiles is pretty sure that the hooks on the wall of his changing room are literally going to be ripped out from the sheer weight of all the clothes that Lydia had thrust into his arms. “Those are definitely a yes. Next?”

He sighs and trudges back into the dressing room. It's going to be along day.

 

*****

 

Stiles dumps his two bags of new clothes on the floor before slumping back on his bed, exhausted in a way that he thought only suicide runs and lacrosse practice could make him. Lydia Martin is a shopping _machine_. Thankfully, he'd managed to talk her out of a trip for 'special underwear', which he's pretty sure was code for a banana hammock. With rhinestones. 

God, he'll never look at Jackson the same way again. And now he's picturing it. Could his life get any more traumatic?

Settling in for a pre-party power-nap, Stiles shoots a text off to Scott telling him he'd pick him and Isaac up at eight. Scott texts back quickly with a smiley face and a “tks 4 drvng, ur da best”.

And if offering to be DD for the night doesn't prove how awesome Stiles is, then putting up with Scott's atrocious text-speak sure does.

 

*****

 

Stiles sips at his cup of Coke and watches as Isaac and Scott drunkenly shove each other out of the way as they wander off to get more 'special punch'. He doesn't know whether to thank or kill Derek and Peter for revealing the strand of wolfsbane that was the secret to getting a werewolf drunk, because, although the result is pretty damn cute, it does mean that Stiles has to officially start paying the wolves back for all the times that they drove so that he could drink.

It's somewhere after eleven and around him the party is really starting to get into full swing: the music's pumping, drinks are flowing, couples are getting handsy on the dance-floor and all of the little fried bacony-cheesy-potato balls that Lydia had laid out on the table are gone. Stiles mourns for them. They were fucking amazing.

A drunken kid stumbles into the wall behind him, looking like he's about to vomit in Lydia;s mom's favourite vase. 

“Woah dude, you really don't wanna do that there. Lydia will fucking eviscerate you.”

The kid glances up at him in incomprehension, the green of his shirt exaggerating his pallor. Sighing in annoyance, Stiles grabs his elbow and starts to drag him outside. 

“Come on, drunky, let's get you outside. You can hurl in the garden if you need to. Just don't do it in Lydia fucking Martin's house.” He pauses. “Or on me!”

Lydia's front yard is deserted, everyone either inside or out the back, and Stiles drags his drunken charge down the steps and over on to the lawn. The kid sinks gratefully to the ground, plastering himself to the cool grass before promptly passing the fuck out.

Well. 

Now Stiles isn't sure what to do. Does he leave the intoxicated minor out on the front lawn where he'll probably end up naked with a penis drawn in permanent marker on his back and one eyebrow missing, yet another cautionary tale of what happens to those who pass out early at parties? He did his duty didn't he, getting the kid outside? Surely that's enough Good Samaritan-ing for the night.

As he's standing there debating this latest moral dilemma, the kid rolls on to his side slightly and let's out a loud snore. A voice chuckles right in his ear before saying “I think your friend's out for the night.”

Stiles whirls around, hands flailing as he prepares to launch into a tirade about light-footed creepers giving a guy a heart attack, but finds the words stuck in his throat when two pairs of red eyes smirk down at him.

“Well. Aren't you just a conundrum. I wouldn't have been able to sneak up on a wolf, but you sure do smell like one.”

Twins. Identical. Fucking. Alpha. Twins.

The one who spoke leans in again, sniffing right near Stiles' neck as his eyes seem to glow red. 

Stiles' heart-beat picks up, but he's not stupid enough to try and get away, to run. Say what you want, but he does have some instinct for self-preservation. Plus, he's pretty neatly boxed in by B1 and B2, the house, the garden hedge behind him and the snoring, drooling mess on the ground.

“Ethan.” The other one speaks up, voice unconcerned as he exerts minimal effort to try and rein his brother in. His gaze sweeps over Stiles clinically, but his brother (Ethan, Stiles says to himself) is looking at Stiles like he wants to _devour_ him. And now is _not_ the time for all of Stiles' snarky comments about big bad wolves and eyes and teeth to attempt to bubble out nervously from behind his tongue, but he finds himself struggling to keep them in anyway.

“What? He smells fucking delicious, and he's clearly in the know. Aren't you, Little Red?”

And damn Lydia for making him wear this fucking red v-neck, because right now he feels like prey and he doesn't need to be told that he looks like it too.

“I'm-I should go. My boyfriend-”

“Is a wolf, right? A lucky fucking wolf, when you've got those lips and that arse.” Ethan reaches out and brushes a thumb across Stiles' lower lip, his brother sighing and rolling his eyes behind him in obvious boredom.

Stiles jerks his head away from the unwanted touch, heart-beat spiking in fear and anger. “What are you-”

Ethan steps further into Stiles' space, one hand moving to grip the back of his neck firmly as the other effortlessly holds Stiles' flailing wrists in front of him. And Stiles is fighting now, self-preservation instincts be damned, body near-spasming as he attempts to pull himself away. He thinks of screaming, but he's not sure exactly what would happen if he did, what these unknown wolves would _do_ , to him or any unsuspecting person who happened to stumble upon them maybe looking to help.

“Where's your pack, pretty little human? Where's your Alpha? A friend of ours wants to talk with him. Think you can arrange that, hmmm?” Ethan whispers, eyes flashing red and teeth extending slightly as his face draws closer to Stiles'. “Of course you can, I'm sure all you'd have to do is lick those cock-sucker lips and-”

A growl sounds from Stiles' left, and he's suddenly released as Ethan backs up towards his brother, smirk firmly in place. Scott's in full-beta form, eyes and teeth flashing as he advances on the twins, fury radiating from him so palpably that Stiles swears he can almost _smell_ it. 

He looks- he looks feral. Stiles has never seen him like this. Not when they fought Peter, not in any battle. Even his first full moon was nothing like this, and Stiles was pretty sure, before this point in time right here, that Scott had been feral then. But no, that was nothing. _This_ is Scott feral. This is Scott _angry_ beyond all description. 

Jackson, Isaac, Boyd and Erica follow him down from the porch, feet landing lightly (again, Stiles struggles with that _fucking suicidal inner-voice_ that wants to say something stupid like 'with feline grace') on the grass. There's claws and growling and decidedly-bumpy foreheads everywhere, and, sweet baby Jesus, Stiles is in fucking _Buffy_ right now. How is this his life?

And shit, Stiles can't let a god-damned werewolf _throw-down_ happen on Lydia Martin's front-lawn! Not with a house full of guests who could stumble out at any moment and find themselves rudely enrolled in 'shit that's real 101'.

(Not to mention that Lydia'd fucking _freak_ if her party was ruined by werewolf bullshit.)

So he does something maybe not-so-bright (which, Stiles knows, is not really an uncommon occurrence for him), and throws himself between two groups of semi-feral, slavering beasts. Who could snap him in half like a twig with just a _pinkie_.

“Scott! Scott! Stop, you have to calm down! I'm ok, please calm down before someone _sees_!” Stiles places himself directly in Scott's line of sight, hands gripping the collar of his shirt as tight as he can. He finds himself babbling, nonsense words a life-line to sanity. “Please, please, come back. Come back to me Scott. I'm ok. I'm ok. I swear I'm ok.”

Stiles should probably be scared. He's not. It's still Scott. _His_ Scott, his best-friend and lover and boyfriend and- Stiles doesn't have words for what else, but Scott is it, whatever _it_ is. 

The wolves around them look on, the twins with surprised expressions on their faces. Clearly this is not how they expected this encounter to end, with a human boy reining in a crazed wolf and preventing a brawl. Because that's exactly what's happening right now; Scott's snarling is turning into a low-pitched rumble, features becoming more human as Stiles speaks, eyes sweeping over him continuously to check for damage.

“That's it, focus on me, control the wolf Scotty. I'm ok I'm ok I'm ok.”

Scott wraps his arms around Stiles' slender form, pulling him firmly against him as he turns his body to shield him from all other wolves, pack or no. He trails his nose up Stiles' helpfully-exposed neck, once-again-human teeth nipping at the most prominent love-bite.

“Mine.” Guttural, primal.

“Yeah, yours. Only yours.” Stiles pants a little in reply, pulse jumping at the fire-works fizzling in him from being publicly and unequivocally _claimed_. There's something else there too, like Stiles' heart is physically trying to push out of his chest and into Scott, melding them together forever. It's strange, but he's pretty sure he's not the only one feeling it.

Scott's visibly pleased with this answer, laving his tongue over the bite in a soothing fashion before turning his body to face the twins more directly. Stiles would complain about being pushed behind his body like a damsel or something, but: 1) he's not stupid- Scott's still fighting the urge to attack right now and Stiles needs to keep him calm; and 2) he'd rather be as far away from creepy-Ethan as possible.

“You're trespassing on Hale Pack territory.” Jackson steps to the fore of the group of betas, stance arrogant and glare hostile. “And you've assaulted a member of this pack. Our Alpha will not be pleased.”

And yes, Jackson can be a douche. But he's also Derek's first-bitten, and he's matured a lot since being cured of that horrible case of lizard-skin. He's also a surprisingly competent third in command and is more than prepared to step up to the duty given Scott's current anger issues. The second can't technically declare war without his Alpha's input, but Jackson's more than aware that if he allows Scott to lead this confrontation insults, growled threats and right-hooks would be the primary forms of communication.

“We were just here to pass on a message. My brother got...carried away.” Aiden responds, no apology in the words.

“Can you blame me? Smell him, look at him.” Ethan meets Scott's scowling gaze. “I bet he's amazing in the sack.”

Stiles has to hold Scott back again, soothing words and hands calming Scott while his own anger bubbles in his stomach, yearning to be let out in a torrent of colourful curses.

“You might want to keep your comments to yourself. Scott looks like he'd be more than willing to rip your tongue out and shove it up your own arse.” Ah Erica: brilliant, amazing Catwoman to Stiles' Batman. He should have known he'd be able to get his snark on vicariously with her around.

“Oh I've got a pretty good idea of where I'd like to shove my tongue.” Ethan taunts back, eyeing Stiles exaggeratedly.

Scott snarls once more, fists clenching with the urge to charge, to fight. 

Ethan laughs in response, eyes flashing at the fun he's having. Aiden's muttered 'Ethan' seems to curb him somewhat. 

“No need to get all touchy there, beta. But hey, Stiles,” his gaze meets Stiles' over Scott's shoulder, “if your mate's ever failing to get the job done, call me. Oh, and pass on our message to your Alpha.”

With a final wink and a smirk, Ethan and Aiden turn and saunter towards a couple of motorbikes, all casual grace and a complete lack of concern for the barely-in-control wolves behind them.

“Who the fuck was that.” Jackson's voice sounds from behind them as Scott herds Stiles towards his jeep, hands roving with intent. It's clear what Scott wants: to stake his claim again, cover Stiles with his scent so that _no one_ would question who Stiles belongs to.

Stiles finds himself 100 percent behind this initiative. He'd endorse it if he could, stamp it with his seal of approval, start a pro 'Scott-claiming-Stiles-in-all-the-ways' movement.

“We get it Stiles, you're gonna get the D.”

Inadvertently speaking his thoughts out loud again. Curse you, brain-mouth filter.

The last thing Stiles can make out before he starts the engine and begins his frantic drive home with a horny Scott breathing down his neck is Isaac arranging to stay at Boyd's for the night. That's for the best really: he probably wouldn't have appreciated getting a lift with Stiles and Scott, what with the way Scott's just pushed his hand down Stiles' pants.

Stiles just prays to all the gods that his dad doesn't pull them over for erratic driving, cos fuck knows how he'd explain that.


	7. All hail the muffin-bearer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of struggled with this chapter and trying to make it not just a rehash of the previous. Also...it begins! :D
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> *****

Stiles wakes up the day after Lydia's with a Scot-topus wrapped around him, nose buried in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. It's not an entirely unpleasant way to wake up, but it's like being hugged by an electric blanket set to high while it's 100 degrees out.

He valiantly struggles to escape the kraken, giggle-snorting as limbs constrict and puppyish growls of discontent rumble from behind him.

“D'you jus' snort?”

“Maybe. Now let go you tentacle monster, 's hot.” 

“No.”

“Scotty, pack meeting.”

“No.”

“Scott, come on. We gotta get up.”

“No. Sleep more.”

Stiles struggles a little more, helpless laughs leaving him as Scott trails his nose down his exposed neck. “Tickles.”

“Smell good. Smell really good.”

“Well you smell horrible, we should totally shower. Together. Naked.”

Suddenly Scott's a lot more interested in this 'getting up' business that Stiles has been advocating, ushering him towards the bathroom with intermittent slaps to the butt when he feels Stiles isn't moving fast enough.

Halfway there, Stiles feels a wave of nausea hit him and only just makes it in time to hurl pizza and fried bacony-cheesy-potato balls into the waiting toilet bowl. He can vaguely hear Scott murmuring soothing words behind him as he rubs his back gently, but he's too busy offering up his stomach contents to the vengeful god of dodgy pizza joints.

Spitting to clear his mouth after the last dry-heave, he grins weakly at Scott as the other boy wipes at his face with a cool wash-cloth, face concerned and movements gentle. “Didn't even drink, and I'm still the one worshipping at the porcelain altar.”

Scott chuckles slightly, face still showing worry. “Should I call mom?”

“No, no. I feel much better now. Probably just something didn't agree with me.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure Scotty, I'm fine. Human remember- sometimes I get sick.”

Scott looks unconvinced, but helps Stiles up from the floor, flushing the toilet behind him and placing a glass of water in his hand.

Stiles is touched. Truly touched. “Aww. Best boyfriend ever. I'll let you blow me in the shower as a reward.”

And Scott's face loses the last of his concern as he practically shoves Stiles into the shower, clothes still on and grin on his face.

 

*****

 

Stiles and Scott arrive at the loft only ten minutes late, but they're not the last ones there so it's all good. They take a seat on one of the armchairs, squishing in beside one another as Jackson gives them a disgusted look.

“Really? Is this like the fuck-bunny stage of your relationship? Are we going to have to put up with smelling you two all the time?”

“Jackson, if you want a piece all you have to do is ask.” Stiles flutters his eyelashes obnoxiously, laughing as Scott ropes a possessive arm around his shoulders and pulls him closer to his side, rumbling warningly. Stiles goes with the movement and ends up practically sitting in Scott's lap. 

“I don't think you have space to talk, Jackson.” Lydia announces as she strides through the door being held open by Erica, perfectly put-together and carrying a tray of muffins that Stiles just has to get his mitts on, preferably within the next point five seconds.

“Lydia! Glorious, wonderful Lydia! Have I told you lately how amazing you are?” He cries, attempts to surge towards the muffin-bearer forestalled by a strong grip around his torso.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Stilinksi.” Lydia responds acerbically, placing a blueberry muffin the size of his palm in his hands anyway with a pleased tilt to her lips.

“Aww yiss!” Stiles hisses, preparing to see if he can fit the whole muffin in his mouth at once. Turns out throwing your guts up and then having to run out the door without breakfast because of extended shower sexy times equals _incredible hunger_.

“Stiles? Maybe take it slow with that, you don't want to throw up again.” Scott says, voice low and concerned as he rubs Stiles' back gently.

Stiles grins and gives him a smacking kiss in reward, because seriously, best boyfriend ever. So caring and considerate. 

He shoves the muffin in anyway, because he's got a reputation to uphold and seeing everyone's faces twist in disgust at his eating habits will never get old.

Sighing in impatience from where he's leaning against the table, Derek 'I'm the Alpha now' Hale ruins his tough-guy image by picking a banana and oat bran muffin out of Lydia's hands. “So. Tell me what happened last night.”

Stiles chokes on muffin as everyone immediately looks to him to answer; Scott's smug face as he smacks his back is _sooo_ not attractive. At all. Nope. He has to clear his throat a few times to rid it of muffin particles (right up there with inhaling toast dust really, he thinks) before he can speak. 

“Well, see, I was taking this drunk guy outside so he didn't throw up in Lydia's mom's vase- which, by the way, you should totally thank me for cos he looked like he could have re-enacted that scene from 'The Exorcist' he was so green.” 

Derek sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. 

“Anyway! So yeah, I take him outside and he passes out on the lawn and this guy comes up behind me and says, right in my ear like a big, big creepy-creeper- Peter, my hand to God you would've admired his technique,” Peter smirks, Derek glares, “He says how I'm a conundrum cos I smell like wolf but he wouldn't be able to sneak up on a wolf. And then he _sniffs_ me and he and his identical fucking twin brother are flashing red eyes at me and then he's looking at me like he wants to _eat_ me and talking about how I smell delicious and calling me Little Red.” 

Scott's tense behind him, chest vibrating with a sub-vocal growl. 

“And then I tried to get out of there cos I said I needed to get back to my boyfriend but he's all like 'He's a wolf isn't he? A lucky wolf when you've got those lips and that butt' and then he's touching my lip and grabbing my neck and my wrists,” Scott's growling is no longer sub-vocal, and he's wrapped both arms around Stiles as he pulls him in tighter, “And getting all up in my face and asking me where's my pack, where's my Alpha, and calling me human and saying I should pass on a message that a friend of theirs wants to meet you and saying I shouldn't have a problem arranging it cos of my lips-”

“Cocksucker lips, Stiles. Don't forget that part.” Erica. So fucking helpful. 

And it seems like maybe Scott'd forgotten _that_ particular comment, because he snarls and flashes his eyes at her before pulling Stiles' face into his neck as if to deny everyone the sight of those lips. Erica merely holds up her hands with an innocent 'What?'.

Voice slightly muffled, Stiles continues. “Yeah, thanks for that reminder, Erica. Anyway, his eyes are all red and I don't know if I can call for help cos I don't want them to go all ape-shit at Lydia's party and he's leaning in even more and his teeth are out and I swear he was either going to bite me or give me a really fangy kiss but then-” a big breath of relief, “Then Scott shows up and he backs the fuck off with this _smarmy_ look on his face. And then the others turn up too.”

Stiles finds his heart's thundering at the memory, so he smooshes his face further into Scott's neck to steady himself. Scott's hands stroke up and down his back as he makes comforting shushing noises, scenting Stiles' exposed neck to strengthen his claim.

“And then?”

Stiles sighs. “And then Jackson tells them they're on Hale Pack territory and how you wouldn't be happy that they pretty much attacked a member of your pack, and Aiden- he's the non-creeper one- says 'we're just here to pass on our message, my brother got carried away', and Ethan- the creepy one- says some other stuff about me and tells us to pass on the message and they get on their fancy motorbikes and ride off.”

“And then?”

Stiles smirks at Derek. “No and then.”

“Stiles.”

“What about how you talked Scott down from attacking when he was absolutely feral? Even they were surprised at that. Or how Ethan said you were probably great in the sack and then told you to come to him if your BFF couldn't get the job done?”

Scott snarls at the memory. Fucking Erica.

“Yeah, am I the only one confused here? Why the hell was this dude so interested in Stilinksi?”

Fucking Jackson. Stiles flips him the bird.

Peter clears his throat. “Stiles has many fine attributes that are appealing to any wolf, not least of which are the ones this Ethan supposedly listed. You, as bitten wolves and Stiles' contemporaries, clearly don't see the full appeal. But trust me when I say this: Stiles is an attractive prospect for any born wolf. Especially an Alpha.” Peter demonstrates how much he's learned his lesson about Scott's possessiveness and ensures that he doesn't look towards the couple as he speaks. 

(Stiles chuckles on the inside; clearly you can teach an old dog new tricks.)

Scott's rumbling picks up volume again and he's giving Derek and Peter suspicious glances as he tilts his body to shield Stiles from view.

“Scott being feral. Explain.” Derek's a faithful adherent to the 'less is more' cult when it comes to speaking. Also the 'demand answers, don't ask' sect and the 'a raised eyebrow says a thousand words' camp.

“Um, well Scott was pretty furious when he got outside. I guess he heard some of what Ethan was saying to me. He was wolfed out and ready to go, but I just- I just talked to him and he calmed down.” Stiles realises his description of what happened is pretty half-arsed, but he figures if Derek's really interested in knowing everything that was happening then he can ask someone else. Stiles is done rehashing last night's events.

“Talked him down you say.” Peter murmurs, barely audible to human ears. He and Derek exchange a glance that obviously means something, but Stiles is too busy trying to hold down the bits of muffin he'd eaten.

“Scott. Scott, let go.”

Scott looks at him quizzically, maybe even a little hurt, but then sees the shade that Stiles' face is slowly turning. He quickly lifts him up from his lap and ushers him towards the bathroom, hand placed on the small of his back comfortingly. 

Jackson's squawk of disgust as Stiles vomits again makes him smile through the gaps between retching. At least he's not suffering alone.

 

*****

 

Scott tucks Stiles into bed not even half an hour later, a glass of ginger ale and some saltines on the bed-side table just in case. He's totally mother-henning. It's cute, and it makes Stiles want to snuggle him into the next century in appreciation. “Scott, boo, I feel much better. It's probably just a touch of food poisoning or a bug or something like your mom said. Nap with me.”

Scott lifts an eyebrow at the pet name but slides in behind an already half-asleep Stiles anyway, gathering him to his chest and holding him loosely. They lay there in silence, communicating with gentle caresses and shouted affection. 

“So. School tomorrow. Are we- I mean, d'you wanna-” Stiles slurs his words slightly, sleep clearly right around the corner. Scott's actually surprised he's even awake his heartbeat’s so settled, his scent warm and sleepy and perfectly relaxing. “I mean, we kinda already are cos of Lydia's party. But if you don't wanna, you should tell me so I don't, you know,-”

“Stiles, focus. What are you talking about?”

“Y'know. If you wanna be seen with me at school. If 'm'allowed to hold your hand n'stuff.”

“What?”

“S'ok if you don't wanna you know. We can jus' be normal. If you don't wan' anyone t'know.”

Scott's shocked that Stiles could think that he doesn't want people at school to know. Surely the public claiming combined with the regular sex and the massive hickie on Stiles' neck was demonstration enough? Plus, everyone probably did know considering how they'd been at Lydia's party, cos, yeah, they'd always been close. But not _that_ close. There was _groping_. 

“Why the hell _wouldn't_ I want to be seen with you? You're mine. Everyone needs to know that. _You_ should know that. And anyway, I'm pretty sure everyone at Lydia's party knows, what with the dancing.” Scott smirks in fond memory, remembering the way he'd mouthed at Stiles' neck while the other boy had attempted to grind back into him. They'd certainly given Danny and his new boyfriend a run for their money.

“Danny's face was priceless.” Stiles sounds sleepily pleased, tugging Scott's hand up to his mouth to give a lazy kiss to the fingers entwined with his own. “So we're together officially? Even at school?”

“Of course we are. Someone'll need to protect you from all those crazy lacrosse fans.”

Stiles snorts softly and aims a half-hearted slap back at Scott.

“Go to sleep, Stiles.”


	8. I might start singing Whitney Houston's “I will always love you”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter in less than a week! Woo! I definitely can't promise to keep it up though...
> 
> Let me know what you think! Also, sorry if some of the details about the school etc. seem weird: I'm Australian, so am definitely not hip to the way the US education system works :)

Scott slips out sometime during the night to head home, leaving a suddenly cold Stiles reaching toward the spot he was occupying. “I'll pick you up in the morning Stiles. Got a surprise for you.”

“'Kay.”

“Feel better.”

“'Kay.”

He chuckles as he slips out the door, Stiles already asleep again behind him. He spots the Sheriff in the hall downstairs, eyebrow raised in amused judgement.

“Scott. Not going to spend the night?”

“No Sheriff; we've got school tomorrow, and mom's expecting me. Just wanted to make sure Stiles got to sleep. Looks like he might have gotten a bit of food poisoning or something.”

The Sheriff looks slightly concerned at that, gaze darting up towards Stiles' room as if he can see through the walls. “Took care of my boy again did you?”

Scott flushes at the comment, remembering the way he'd pretty much mothered Stiles all day, checking his temperature and pulse while he slept, protective urges on overdrive. He's really not sure what he would have done if anyone, the Sheriff included, had tried to come into Stiles' room while he'd been so worried about his best-friend. Boyfriend. Best-boyfriend? He shrugs internally; Stiles will think of a descriptor.

“Of course. It's what- He's my-”

The Sheriff chuckles a bit, ruffling Scott's hair as he passes him to go up the stairs. “Exactly.”

Scott's got no idea what just happened.

 

*****

 

Stiles wakes the next morning feeling slightly queasy, but otherwise ready for school. 

Ugh. First day back.

He grabs a quick shower, soaping up and washing his hair at speed. It's as he's dragging his towel over suddenly-sensitive nipples (Jesus Christ! It hurts and feels good all at the same time, and damn if that's not confusing) that a wave of nausea hits him and he finds himself hunched over the porcelain altar once again.

“Stiles? You alright in there?”

“I'm fine dad, don't worry. Just a bit of an upset stomach.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you shouldn't be going to school if you're not feeling well.”

And see, any other day of the year and Stiles would be behind that suggestion one hundred percent. But not today. Not when Scott seemed so excited about this 'surprise' he's got for Stiles. Not when today's the day where they'll walk into school hand-in-hand and officially return from summer break as an _actual thing_. (All those other times when people made comments about their closeness didn't count, even that time in seventh when Jackson had yelled out “finally tapping that McCall?” It's actually real this time. And hey. Maybe Mrs McCall and his dad hadn't been the only ones to see this coming?)

“I'm ok Dad. And it's the first day back at school, probably best if I don't miss it. Anyway, I feel much better now.”

“Ok, if you're sure.” The Sheriff sounds uncertain, but takes Stiles at his word. “You might want to hurry, or you'll be late.”

“Scott's picking me up.”

“Oh is he now?”

“Yes. Don't look so smug.”

His dad chuckles. “You can't even see me.”

“Don't need to.”

“Well, I've got to head to work. Call me if you need to come home; I'll come get you from school.”

Stiles' dad is awesome. “Thanks dad, will do. Be safe.”

“Always am, kid, always am.”

 

*****

 

Stiles is contemplating whether a piece of lightly buttered toast will both a) keep him going, and b) not make him sick, when he hears a distinct roaring sound come to a stop out front of his house. Curious, he opens the door and is greeted by quite possibly the hottest thing he's ever seen: Scott straddling a dirt-bike, denim jacket hugging his shoulders, hair slightly dishevelled from the helmet in his hands and a confident smirk on his face.

“Going my way?”

Stiles throws his head back in laughter, jumping down the stairs to touch both bike and boyfriend. “You're such an idiot. And how the hell did you get your mom to approve of a motorbike?”

“You love it, don't lie.” 

Stiles' heart might flutter a bit at those words.

“And mom couldn't exactly argue against 'I need something to get around in, and a car's too expensive' and 'I'm a werewolf; I'll heal'.”

“And this is how we're getting to school? I don't know how my dad'll feel about that. Plus, I'm not durable like a wolf; I don't heal.” Stiles teases, hands running along the handlebars in fascination.

Scott's serious all of a sudden, grasping Stiles hand so that he looks up at him. “I'd never let you get hurt, you know that right?”

Stiles laughs again. “Pretty sure there wouldn't be much you could do if we came off the bike at 60 Scotty.”

Scott's got his determined face on. “I'd protect you. I'd grab you and make sure you didn't hit the ground.”

Stiles doesn't even really know what to say to that, so he just smiles at Scott happily and leans in to kiss him. That flutter's back.

“So we're coming out to your neighbours first? Great plan.” Scott mumbles as he tugs Stiles closer to him, one arm wrapping around his waist while the other helps ensure the bike stays upright.

Stiles is in the middle of trying to figure out a way to climb into Scott's lap while he's still on the bike when Scott's phone goes off in his pocket, generic ring-tone blaring out across the front lawn. He pulls away reluctantly so Scott can answer, arms still wrapped around his neck and head resting on his shoulder.

“Isaac. Yep. We're on our way. And thanks, I was right.” Scott gives Stiles a cheeky grin as he hangs up.

“Right about what?”

“The way you'd react to the bike. And that we'd need Isaac to break us up so we wouldn't get to school late. You should grab your bag.”

“Insufferable. Cocky and insufferable. Don't know why I agreed to be your soul-boyfriend Scott McCall!” Stiles shouts as he runs back inside to grab his bag and an apple.

Soul-boyfriend. Sounds about right.

 

*****

 

When Scott pulls into the school parking lot, Stiles' arms wrapped around him from behind, the first thing he notices is how everyone is noticing _them_ , whispered conversations and sideways glances. The second thing is Stiles' heart beating somewhat erratically as he pulls back from Scott and slips off the bike, putting distance between them in response, scent tinged with nervousness. 

It annoys Scott that these people are even _looking_ at Stiles, let alone making him feel nervous. So he does what any decent soul-boyfriend would do: he cocks an eyebrow at the nearest group of judgemental faces as he reels Stiles in by the waist and snugs him in to his side. (Notes how perfectly he fits there, and the way it makes his wolf howl with happiness as Stiles relaxes into the embrace, scent pleased.)

“Problem?”

People scatter, curiosity not enough to stand up to actually being asked what their deal is. Scott hopes this is the worst they'll have to cope with, but he's not convinced of it.

He releases Stiles for a moment to slide off the bike, grabbing his hand again as quickly as he can and tugging him close.

“It'll be ok. Soul-boyfriends remember? It's probably just a shock for them to see that it's finally happened.”

Stiles laughs. “We're actually going with soul-boyfriends? I wasn't serious you know.”

Scott shrugs. “I like it. It's pretty damn accurate.”

“Sap.”

“You love it.”

“Yeah, I kinda do. So, wanna get any more territorial over me? Maybe carry me in over your shoulder so everyone gets the message? I'm sure we could find a collar.”

“You're mine. Just making sure people know it.”

“No peeing on me.”

“Idiot.”

“You love it.”

Scott grins down at him, arm now wrapped firmly around his shoulders. “Yeah, I kinda do.”

 

*****

 

The day passes quickly and almost without incident. Harris makes some borderline-inappropriate comments in Chem, more than a few people do double-takes when they notice they're actually _holding hands_ (and Stiles swore he didn't want to get all mushy, but holding hands is _nice_ ), and Lydia tries to get Stiles to swap werewolf sex stories with her in Trig.

It's not until lunch that things _literally_ go pear-shaped.

Stiles, Lydia and Erica are running late to lunch, delayed by their absolute _hag_ of an English teacher, Miss Blake. Stiles gets the heeby jeebies from her: at first glance, she's all sweetness and light, and definitely looks the part of a caring education-provider. 

But every time she's anywhere near Stiles, he feels like he's constantly fighting against the urge to shiver. Today was even worse: his stomach was fully on board the 'let's get away from her' wagon, seemingly lurching about in his body. He's lucky he didn't lose his apple on the desk really.

They're about to round the corner just before the cafeteria when Erica reaches out a hand to stop them, nostrils flaring and growl rumbling. She pushes them behind her, ignoring Lydia's “excuse you!” and Stiles' squawk of protest.

And then the Alpha twins emerge from where they'd clearly been lurking in the next hallway. Stiles' heart-beat accelerates as he and Lydia cringe back against the lockers.

“Stiles. Nice to see you again.” Ethan grins, eyes undressing him where he stands.

“What are you doing here.” Erica snarls, eyes flashing angrily.

“What do you think we're doing here? Everyone's got to go to school Blondie.” Aiden responds, stance arrogant and eyes rolling.

Ethan takes a step towards them, body angled towards Stiles and demeanour seemingly unconcerned about the she-wolf rumbling in warning between them. “So. Did you pass on our Alpha's message to your Alpha? I'm sure he'd love to meet you Stiles: he's loves to collect things and you _are_ a rare find.”

Stiles feels like his blood's turned to ice, and any appetite he might have had is completely gone.

Lydia steps in front of him, arms crossed and a disdainful look on her face, conveniently blocking him from view. “We did. Our Alpha is thinking over your request. And also thinking over whether or not he should kill you for trespassing on Hale Pack land.”

Aiden and Ethan both laugh at that, gaze condescending.

“If he wants a fight, Red,” (Stiles has to fight the urge to correct Aiden- she's a strawberry blonde goddess, thank you very much) “then I'll give it to him. But like I said: Duke just wants to meet. We've got a mutual concern that would be better dealt with if we coordinated.”

“Like she said, he's thinking it over. Now, I suggest you get out of our way before I rip you to shreds.”

Aiden and Ethan both step to the side of the hall, faces smug as Erica cautiously ushers Stiles and Lydia past them while remaining on alert. They hurry towards the cafeteria, glancing back as the twins follow them leisurely. 

It's as they reach the supposed safety of the lunch room that Ethan makes his move, reaching out to grip Stiles by the arm and tug him towards him. “How 'bout you come sit with me, Little Red.”

The effect is pretty much instantaneous: Stiles tries to pull away while multiple chairs can be heard hitting the ground from the direction of their normal table.

“You really want to get your fucking hand _off_ me, right now.”

“Boyfriend a bit possessive is he?” Ethan smirks, eyeing Scott as he advances across the room in fury. Stiles can tell that he's fighting hard to keep himself reigned in, but the about-to-be-a-confrontation is already drawing the attention of surrounding students, half watching the scene playing out between Stiles and Ethan and half watching the enraged march of the rest of the pack towards it.

Aiden's muttered “Ethan” is drowned out but a slowly-rising murmur of excitement from those around them: fights are always good entertainment.

“You really want to be to blame for a werewolf brawl happening in the middle of school? Pretty sure keeping the secret an actual fucking secret from a bunch of students is kind of an important rule.” Stiles keeps his voice low and angry, the tension in his shoulders clearly broadcasting his feelings on what's happening right now to those around him.

“Wouldn't be my fault if your boyfriend can't keep his head.” Ethan snarks, looking up just as Scott reaches the small group.

“Scott, Scotty. Stay calm: I'm fine. He's just being a douche who still doesn't understand that no means no.” Stiles pleads, eyes trying to convey to Scott how not-ok it would be for him to start wolfing out right here, right now.

Scott visibly takes a breath before growling out, “Get your fucking hands off of him, Ethan. He's not interested. And he's mine.”

Ethan only smirks harder, grip tightening as he pulls Stiles flush against his body. And that's it, Stiles is so done with this fucking arsehole. Also, he doesn't need to be rescued all the time- he's not an invalid. So Stiles does what any child of a law-enforcement official has been taught to do in this type of situation: he knees Ethan in the balls.

Ethan drops Stiles like a hot potato, breath whooshing out and pain written on his face as he cups his injured pride. Stiles stumbles backwards into Scott's arms, who swiftly pushes him behind him and into the safety of the middle of the pack. His stance is clearly protective, and some of the students around them are starting to inch away in concern.

“You fucking-” Ethan starts to yell, but is stopped when a piece of today's lasagne smacks him in the face.

“FOOD FIGHT!” Someone (who sounds suspiciously like Danny) calls.

And then it's chaos: lasagne soars through the air, jello skitters across the floor, pudding gets smooshed in hair. Trays become both shields of armour and crude payload delivery systems, catapulting macaroni and cheese with none of the intended precision; the collateral damage is unprecedented. Tables of friends suddenly become enemies, and screeching erupts from the cheerleader's section as someone cops a tuna sandwich to the face.

Scott's busy shepherding the pack out of the door to safety and, more importantly, away from the twins. Stiles is holding his hand tightly when someone hurls a pear in their direction like a fruit missile: Scott reacts instinctively, turning his body to shield Stiles and getting hit in the back for his gallantry.

“Oh my god. You totally just took a pear for me. You jumped in front of it like it was a bullet!”

“Stiles, we should go. Come on.”

“You're like Kevin Costner! I might start singing Whitney Houston's _I will always love you_ after that display of heroics.”

Scott huffs out a laugh, guiding Stiles out into the hall and after the rest of the pack.

“You have no idea how fucking hot you are right now. You took a pear-bullet for me. You're definitely getting lucky tonight.”

“Come on, we should get to class.” Scott responds, wrapping his arms around Stiles and re-scenting him. (Also, holding him keeps him from storming back into the cafeteria and trying to rip Ethan's throat out. With his claws. Because doing shit like that with your teeth would not only be completely unnecessary when he's got a perfectly functioning set of claws, but would also be fucking disgusting, what with all of that blood everywhere.)

“Wait! Wait! Can we do the scene where he carries her out of the concert, kicking people out of the way?!”

Scott just laughs as Stiles tries to climb him like a tree.


End file.
